


Five Ways Wash and Maine Didn't Hook Up

by davey



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-23
Updated: 2012-04-23
Packaged: 2017-11-04 04:21:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/389691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/davey/pseuds/davey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This was written as a swap after we got into the RTX first run party, the old "Five Ways" style fanfic with the request pairing as Maine/Wash and each one a separate AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. College

There weren't any Ivy Leagues in the Northwest. He wanted a new city's experience. That's what he kept telling himself every time he was homesick, there weren't any Ivy Leagues in the Northwest.

He missed the Northwest. Sitting in a Manhattan Starbucks staring at the rain just wasn't the same, even if it did come with a lot more homework, and that was sort of a nice change of pace.

Why did he even bother coming to New York? He could've studied criminology anywhere. He was just going to use the degree in it to join the police academy after a few years enlisted anyway. He didn't even need Ivy, why did he let his college advisor insist on it? And why Columbia over Harvard or Yale anyway? Stupid. So stupid.

And Starbucks was different in the Northeast for some reason, anyway, and he really preferred the smaller houses but wanted the familiar name. The fresh seafood was miserable and he'd eaten mostly fish his whole life so he'd actually gotten violently sick the first two weeks from dietary shifts. The people in Manhattan had the wrong attitude about everything. Everything cost too much, everywhere was too crowded, and the variety of people and places and things wasn't so much more than out west. He hated it. 

He'd drop out if he hadn't seen the price tag, and if he could stomach being any closer to his father and the man's fucking eighteenth year of moping over his wife dying. Oh, yeah. That was why New York. He took a sip of his frappe and sighed, staring at the rain.

There was so much about New York he'd heard wrong though. He'd heard they were more tolerant here- It wasn't. It was mutually intolerant. People were just miserable here. And not the miserable they were back home, where the rain was to blame. Here it was just the greed and the cramped feel of everything. Those weren't excuses, those were lifestyle choices. And no reason to take it out on people who weren’t there to make it, just to go to school and be quiet.

Oh. Quiet. He'd kill for quiet.

He winced again at the loud, wet New Englanders. They weren't unhappy, or miserable, or New Yorkers. They were excited and cheerful and bouncing off each other vocally and literally. They were wearing outfits that declared them New Englanders proudly despite the glares from the very strongly-supportive locals, things like the MASSHOLE shirt on one of them and the battered Red Sox hat on another and so on. He rolled his eyes at this, because that was almost worse than the locals. And they were so loud...

And one table over. Shouting about being "wicked soaked" and "frickin’ cold" and "why the hell did they give me this frickin' blended shit when I asked fah a frappe?" It was obnoxious.

Especially considering that even wet and loud and obnoxious they had to be good-looking- One was even gorgeous. Really drop-dead gorgeous.

That was another way New York had lied to him- The gay community wasn't half as accepting as he'd been led to believe. More of the same of New York, really. But oh, was it nice to look.

Both were lean but not overly skinny, both were dark haired and had stubble, both were smiling and cheerful and obviously close.

Not that he'd listened in, but he learned both had grown up near each other, that the brown haired/brown eyed one was Matt and the other, prettier one was Jacob, that they drove here instead of took a cab or the subway and they were responsible for the ninety thousand dollar car everyone in the shop was eyeing, that they were here to scout out schools for Jacob because he didn't want to spend his entire life in Boston, and Matt already came here on a trial with Julliard for dance and music.

He learned he could get very warm when Matt smiled at him as he came to his table and asked for the nutmeg.

He passed it over, accidentally spilling it. Matt laughed and sat down with the chair turned backwards, wiping it off his books when he did. Then he got curious. Matt had no boundaries, and he'd always been a private person.

He really found him obnoxious.

He really found him incredibly attractive and that outweighed the annoyance.

Matt asked him questions about his major, about his school, if he had advice for Jacob, if he liked the same sports, where he was from. What was amazing to him was that every time, Matt actually paid attention.

When Jacob mentioned they had a meeting at NYU's admission department, Matt actually looked sad he had to go, and asked if he could meet him at the same table tomorrow, same time. He scoffed and said sure, not expecting anything.

The only reason he showed up at all was because he was always at that same Starbucks at the same time, studying and doing his homework and generally hating New York and New Yorkers and New York attitudes.

And suddenly down plopped a pile of books and a MP3 player and his normal drink.

And a nutmeg shaker.

And Matt, complete with a wide, bright smile under that same battered Red Sox cap to keep off the rain. He had on a raincoat with the collar popped up over his neck and one earbud hanging down over his chest as he apologised for spilling the coffee yesterday and that since he'd obviously seen the car they drove off in and was studying observing shit he must've known that more often than not the drinks would be on him.

He asked why he'd bothered showing up. Matt blushed and shrugged a little as he scratched at the edge of his cap and jokingly said that he'd promised he would, right? He blushed himself at that. And more when Matt asked about Seattle, about why he bitched about the coffee... And all these things he'd casually said the day before.

Matt had remembered, and that made him blush more. Then the next day, after finding out this was his usual spot, Matt showed up again.

A week later, he'd made him his own playlist and forced him to take it home on his cellphone. The songs were decently picked even if pop music wasn't his thing.

A few days after that, he'd been confessing old boyfriends and his father's neglectfulness. After that, how he'd felt losing his mom, how he didn't remember her and hated that he didn't, how he'd changed his last name to hers and gotten it wrong by mistake. He found out Matt was planning to enlist, too, a few days after that.

When suddenly he found himself laying in bed next to him, both naked and sweaty and panting, he didn't know what to think. All this from coffee?

He mentioned it, and Matt shrugged again in his offhand nervous way and said that he never really cared much for coffee anyway.

He was confused further and said so, because one of the first things Matt had said was he was straight. Matt laughed and reached to spoon him, kissing his temple playfully, embarrassingly, and mumbled about how sometimes, people clicked despite that.

It was the first thing he'd liked about New York. Ever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a bonus to my beta for this, I threw in a Freelancer OC of hers.
> 
> As of writing this fic, there were 194 Starbucks locations in Manhattan alone.


	2. Thesaurus

"Watch my six." It was something Washington yelled a lot, and something Maine was beginning to resent.

The Director had enjoyed his little game there, that was for sure.

Wash was out. Maine had been mildly homophobic. Surprisingly, though, Maine found that of the two, Wash was less likely to bring up gay anything. He was far more professional. And of course, he'd gotten over hating anyone who could watch his back.

But then Wash would say things like, "Check the hole," "Are you going to take it or not?” and, more often than not, some variation of "Watch my six."

The first few times, he'd thought nothing of it. Sure, he didn't use military speech as much as Wash. He was a good soldier, sure, but he wasn't married to the job. Wash was. After a while he'd started noticing that Wash could say the same thing a hundred ways, and that one of his favourites was "Watch my six."

It was when Wash got to "Eyes on my ass, dammit!" that Maine found himself shellshocked.

He shouldn't have been. It was just another way.

But that's when he realised he had been watching his six. A lot.

And other parts.

They'd been together every second for four months. Oftentimes alone.

And sometimes so alone there hadn't been a need for how many sixes he'd been looking out for. How literally he'd been watching six instead of facing six and watching out to cover both of them at once.

Maine grumbled and started to stand away from Wash every time he had his back to him, started to avoid being too near him when they weren't. He was far too grateful for every night on watch duty. Even if it meant, like this time, he was reflecting that day's Watch My Six and going over all the potentially metaphorical ways Wash was flirting.

"You looking at my back?"

And suddenly he would be.

"Got my ass?"

And suddenly he’d be thinking he could.

"Get up on my back, dammit!"

And then he'd want to be no matter what.

He'd hear all the ways and start wondering, was Wash the sort who'd take? He seemed demanding but Maine'd had girlfriends who'd proven that was shit. Wash was shorter but he wasn't much shorter, and he had more CQC from childhood boxing and wrestling events.

That'd get him wondering if Wash would offer sex then demand he take it instead.

And that'd get him wondering, red-faced and way too warm and a lot harder than he'd like to be, why he didn't hate the idea.

He never asked Wash about exes. He told him all about his, and they did talk enough about their previous lives. He knew Wash pretty well though. Like how they really didn't have any hobbies, they just shared a job.

He wondered if Wash had any interest in him despite that.

Wash tapped him on the shoulder, stirring him from the thoughts. "Got your back now," he said. That day's way of saying "My turn for watch."

And it just went "ping" inside him. Instead of letting Wash put his helmet back on and going in the tent to sleep, he stood up and drew the man closer. He didn't understand it himself when he found himself kissing him, or when he genuinely enjoyed the taste. What he did understand was when Wash moaned in relief, "Me, too," and cupped his face, and he definitely understood when Wash stripped him down.

He was more than a little thankful that Wash had offered to just do hands-on-dicks stuff instead of sex-sex. 

He very much liked the almost non-stop kissing.

Wash asked what brought it on right as he found himself slipping that they just had something serious. Wash asked again with a very embarrassed laugh and he mumbled, shamed, about watching his ass sounding too much like an offer. Wash laughed again, suggesting it as a code... Which he happily accepted.

The first time he heard Wash say "I'll cover you as best I can" to someone else, he his guard down. Wash had left him, and gone after a woman of all people. Wash no longer cared?

Neither did he.

He let Sigma take charge completely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wash says this to South in Recovery One episode 4.


	3. The Meta

"You keep looking at him," Doc said from his wall while Wash was on guard.

"Yeah. That's because he's insane. Although I'd recommend you not be the one to bring that up." He checked his sights again- They’d been knocked loose before, and he wanted that fixed. These were the sort of things he wanted to get through the residual Epsilon memories for, and those were always painful to sort out, even if it would give him a bit of proper maintenance memory from a moment or two of potential trauma. It meant he didn't really have time to deal with the whiny medic, for one thing.

"Yeah, that's not what I mean. I'm all about tolerance and all, and I can understand attraction, even a little of this being Stockholm syndrome-"

"It isn't. If you're suggesting what I think you're suggesting, you've got it all wrong," Wash snapped, turning the gun on him almost nonchalantly. Doc didn't need to know the sights were off- And even if they weren't, he wasn't going to miss a shot from six feet away on an immobile target.

"You've got something going on," Doc almost laughed, "I can tell."

"Yeah. Why not, I'm bored enough for small talk- I had a thing for him back when he was sane. Nothing major, he's kind of good-looking under there. Guy gets urges for the pretty ones, doesn't mean he reacts to them. But that's not why I'm looking now, that's why I looked two years ago. So stop bothering me about it." He pushed the gun back- Doc obviously called his bluff. Even in a wall he had more medical expertise than either of them, and, frankly, he wasn't about to admit how valuable that really made him. The only thing keeping him from killing the medic was that he hadn’t caught on to why they weren’t killing him.

Which, alright, was strange logic, but, their whole lives were strange.

There was also that he liked hearing another voice after dealing with what was left of Maine. But he wasn't going to admit that.

"But you did like him," Doc repeated.

Maybe he wasn't so crazy about a voice. "Yes," he growled. "Did being the key word."

Doc thankfully went quiet for a few minutes. Wash continued to fidget with his gun, eventually just giving up and kitbashing a different sight on it. "Did he like you?" Doc asked when he started to weld them together.

"What?"

"Back then. Did the Meta like you back?"

"I don't know," he said. "Never asked. We weren't close. He was something nice to look at during a boring implantation prep, that's all. We worked together a few times. His name's Matthew or something, I was there when he lost his voice."

"Oh, hey, I remember you two now!" Doc said happily. And Wash groaned, because he realised then he did know that voice. Stupid thing about photographic memory was when it was mixed with another set of memories they got scrambled. Adding in Alpha's hadn't made it easier- He'd thought that was where Doc had been familiar.

No. That table had been. The one he wanted Maine to come out of.

The one he'd been hoping Maine could admit back whether or not he liked him too when he'd confessed to the interest out of desperation to get the man to come back.

Had Doc been there, when he’d said that? It’d been as the Director had demanded the medical attention- Had Doc left the room?

How much did Doc know, and how good was his memory?

"Yeah, that was us," Wash confessed, a little bitterly. "Anyway, we weren't close. End of story."

"You sure were worried though," Doc laughed. "We had to block your calls from the closed circuit, you kept bugging us every time we let the radio on so the Director could ask about him!"

"Yeah. I guess I was worried a little. Never would've thought it mattered."

"It didn't, we were going to take care of him anyway," Doc assured him. It didn't work. "But did he know you liked him?"

"Yeah, he knew. I don't know if he still knows, but he knew."

"I knew you still liked him!"

Wash sighed. “No. He's crazy. He might not remember anything any of us said back then."

"I bet he does. I think he likes you, too."

"Maine was straight."

"But I had O'Malley, remember?"

"Omega," he growled. He didn't like how human the fragments got. He didn't like how close they got.

Doc attempted a shrug. It was extremely pathetic. "I know O'Mal- Omega. The AI weren't straight. They... Tried to twist things. They wanted to be able to have anyone they found attractive, regardless of their host's opinion or their target's gender. And not just Omega, Gamma did too. Worked better with Wyoming than it did with me."

He remembered. "What's your point? We're not our AI."

"But didn't Carolina go crazy? O'Ma- Omega said he did. She started being more like them than herself, right?" Wash felt himself get cold- Doc had a point. He had a good point. "That was only with two of them. Don't you think seven and the Alpha might've twisted that a little? He can't be fully straight anymore."

Wash hated himself for looking down. "...Even if he wasn't, he wouldn't remember. And he's not the same guy anymore."

"So you did like him," Doc repeated. "Not just how he looked."

Dammit.

"Yeah," Wash sighed. "I guess I did. Too late now, huh?"

"Nope! It's never too late! Go get him!"

Wash wanted to glare at him. Maybe Doc even noticed through their visors. Maybe he even recoiled. That was a good mental picture. "We're in a situation. Sex comes when we're clear."

"I never said sex!" Doc wailed. "Don't have sex in front of me!"

Wash actually snorted out softly at that. "We're not going to, don't worry. But if you don't behave, we might just forget to turn you around when it's your turn to take watch."

If nothing else, Wash thought happily, it shut Doc up.


	4. Speakers

He'd kept calm. He'd kept calm.

When Wash had watched the bullet hit, he'd kept calm.

When Wash had done a field patch and called it in, he'd kept calm.

When Wash helped them put Maine on the stretcher. When he'd boarded the Pelican. When he'd heard the Director wanted to board. When they made the uneasy landing.

When the medics denied him entry to be by his side.

When he heard the news. When he relayed it to New York.

When he'd found out first hand it was true.

He'd just gotten used to it. Middle baritone and running together in the words due to how quickly he spoke and strongly non-Rhotic. He'd taken a while but now the accent wasn't just "slightly off the rest of America but off of Wyoming's British-influenced Elexra," now it was comforting. This was his partner. He trusted the man.

Hell.

Fuck.

Well beyond trusted.

He'd wanted to tell him, in case he didn’t make it, but he had to stay calm. And then the Director had boarded and he had to make sure the Director didn’t assume the worst. The truth. He knew Maine knew though. He even knew it was requited.

No more humming.

No more randomly muttered ancient song lyrics.

No more snappy, slightly sarcastic replies to the orders.

No more wit at all, come to think.

He'd. Never. Speak. Again.

Wash put down his helmet on the stand next to him, watching Maine smile at him despite this. Maine made a soft, pleased purring noise as he sat down.

"I never said it," Wash whispered. "Now you never can say it back when I do. I'm sorry."

Maine gave that goofy half-hearted shrug he'd come to crave earning, then brushed up at his temple as he smiled that same smirky, confident smile.

He didn't want to see him the same.

He reached for his hand, the one at his temple, and Maine bucked into it. The smile went softer.

"I never said it," he repeated.

Maine pointed with his free hand, and Wash found the touchpad Maine was directing him to. He handed it over, Maine dropping away and typing surprisingly quickly.

_Did we ever need to? Words were always my strong suit compared to yours, Wash, and we both were more actions over words anyway._

Wash pursed his lips. "So what if we were? I should've said them- Maine, I should say them. I-"

Maine clapped his hand over Wash’s mouth, shaking his head. _Not if I can't, he typed. Don't bother. We know. We're not stupid. Hell, you less than me. We'll fix it._ When Wash read them, about to ask how, Maine smiled again and tugged at his collar until they were level. Wash had never felt so relieved to be kissed in his life, even with the muted whimpers at how it hurt Maine to bend his neck.

Maine wasn't able to move it much for a while, which made the sessions they had to sneak more difficult. Especially with Maine's attitude towards reciprocation. Eventually Maine gave up trying and had written on the inside of Wash’s armour during a more heated moment, _I owe you_ and a tally chart of, at the time seven but definitely increased since, _blowjobs_. Wash had laughed at that every time they met up again until Maine went in for implantation, even after the times Maine'd actually followed through and erased one.

That was the problem with the implantations, Wash had thought.

At first.

Until Sigma had laughed during one of his earliest fits of crumbling delirium and shoved Wash back against a wall. "Stop following him, David," he warned. "It won't ever work. We're divided and we shouldn't be, but you humans aren't divided enough. We're going to leave you eventually- It doesn't matter how many times he's screaming out 'I love you' and you're just too dumb to listen."

Sigma had been his voice for him. Maine had gotten a vocal one on purpose, after all.

Wash saw Maine slump when the words sunk in on his end.

"He didn't say them," Wash tried. "You didn't take it from him-"

Sigma, perched visibly on Maine's shoulder now while still controlling the arm, scoffed. "I love you, Wash," he said, reaching into Maine and grabbing a perfect example of his old voice, making Wash's chest tighten at how much he'd missed it and revolt at how it had been right. It'd been exactly right. Pacing, tone, pitch, even the way he said his vowels. That had been Maine. That had been a Maine he'd missed, a Maine who'd told him cheerfully that their sex life had been great and had asked for ammo and had told him so many times to look a little on the bright side. Out loud, instead of on a touchpad he couldn't always read.

"Whoops," Sigma said back in his own voice. "Guess I let that slip."

He'd requested the transfer the next day. And if he'd had his way, he'd never run into either of them again.

It was the first thing that Epsilon had latched on to when he’d gotten his own implant, when Epsilon had started to go crazy in his own way.

The fact that they could steal them to keep themselves sane.

What Epsilon hadn't recognised was that taking the bits of them Maine and Wash had had to keep themselves stable had been what caused Maine to relapse control in the beginning, what made Maine slowly lose himself. And when Epsilon tried to keep that memory intact for his own sanity, he kept rehashing it to Wash.

A thousand fucking relivings of the worst second they shared.

The one where he lost Maine two ways.

The worse the memory got, the worse Epsilon did. Epsilon started blaming Wash for not being there for him. He started to see all the ways Wash felt twisted, all the barricades Wash couldn't hold in place.

And finally, he collapsed his own.

The one positive to Epsilon dying, killing himself in his head, was he took that moment with him.

Epsilon had made it more his own anyway.


	5. Partners

Washington was stronger. That had surprised him- He had more mass, but Wash could take almost everyone down in CQC. Something about boxing and wrestling as a kid, and martial arts. The blood trickling down his suddenly split lip told him Wash was stronger than he looked, and Wash's specialty was take-downs.

One thing, though, was that to take them down, Wash had to catch them. And not a single Freelancer was more agile than him, even the top tier ones like Texas and Wyoming. He was fast, almost the fastest, and he was very, very mobile. After all, Wash'd taken the wrestling classes, and him, he'd taken dance. Retro-style, pop and breakdancing especially. That meant tumbling and gymnastics and being able to feint.

Wash could take him down. Once he got his hands on him.

Another lunge, and he bent backwards just enough to avoid the swung arm, then instead of doing the backwards handspring he'd seemingly started he dropped to the floor and rolled left. Wash had to chase him, and he easily corkscrewed upwards into his side, launching himself off the floor with his hands and flipping over him to land carefully. Wash got back up and started to shuffle his feet like the boxer he was, tape falling off his bare knuckles, and he just brushed off a little more talc and swayed like he was mimicking to the classics.

Wash got in a nice cross to his jaw when he did that. He forgot Wash was left-handed. It was easy to miss, most Freelancers primaried right and Wash had learned to hold his gun that way. He'd feigned a normal right jab and deliberately gotten in the left. He had to watch for that.

He was the best at CQC. He had to prove that Wash's high school accolades meant jack shit in the real world. Aliens wouldn't care how hard a man could punch. And they had better reach than Wash did. Wash did some fancy spin with his arm out to try and clothesline him, and he countered with his own spin in the same direction but forward, jabbing him in the gut with his knee, the jaw with an uppercut and the top of his head with his forehead. It was a one-two-three that could've taken Wyoming down.

Wash had simply made sure to grapple on the way down.

"Pinned," Wash laughed cruelly in his ear after folding him up under him. "Still the champ."

"All you can do is close range, Pally," he snarled. "You shoot for shit and you can't do anything technical. And how many times did you retake that vehicle test, rank nineteen?"

Wash responded by smashing his chin into the floor.

He felt more than heard the crack, which was exactly why he went unconscious.

*

"Did a number on you," a voice said as he blinked himself awake. "Not enough, though. I almost killed you. If the Director hadn't been watching, I would've, too."

Oh, great. He sat up, wincing. He reached for his jaw, too. "I wouldn't recommend talking if I were you. Just because I didn't do so well in the field medical training doesn't mean I don't know firsthand that it takes a few hours to reset a broken bone."

If talking was out, Maine could always gurgle out spiteful intentions. So he did, trying to work his jaw open at the same time. If he had motivation, he decided, he could talk. It'd just hurt like shit.

"Whatever," Wash said, kicking off the wall. He uncrossed his arms, planting one hand on his hip. His right, Maine noted. Wash wasn't faking his dominance right now. "You're quick for a bigger guy. Little taller than average, at least. And you've got some bulk, too, you work out."

He narrowed his eyes. "I'm allowed to look," Wash laughed. "I recognised some of those moves, from cultural history class, you know. You like old stuff." Wash pushed back on his shoulder, forcing him to lie back down, and straddled him. He reached for the pillow, gripping the edges. "Be glad I don't. I'm a pretty modern guy, Maine. But if I were stuck in the bygone age? I'd probably think that beating your ass and making myself the definite CQC expert would've meant you'd become my bitch- In every sense."

He winced, but Wash laughed cruelly again and got off. "Aren't you lucky I'm glad this is the twenty-sixth century though? I just wanted you to know that, if I wanted? I'd own you." He headed for the door, stopping without turning back. "Oh. And I've been retaking those tests. All of them. Add in progress with today's match? I'm ranked eighth now, number four. Just high enough for first wave. Thanks for giving me that."

Eighth? Really?

Wait.

Four?

_Four?_

He'd been third! He sat up again, snarling hard enough to hurt from the way he'd ground his teeth. Wash turned back, smirking. "That's right."

"Rematch," he managed, jaw aching with every clinch. "You owe me my rank back."

"Funny. I thought I'd earned mine," Wash said. He stood up, the medicine making his legs shaky. Wash actually looked a little impressed.

"You stole it."

"You'd never win if we fought again, with you like this. All you really had on me was that speed- You're sluggish."

"Maybe," he huffed, but he lunged anyway. His arms flailed as Wash stepped back.

"See? I shouldn't've dodged that."

"I'm gonna kill you," he snarled.

"If you ever catch me, you still couldn't."

He managed to grab Wash's shirt this time. It finally clicked- Wash had come here without putting on his armour.

Come to think of it, why had Wash asked to fight stripped down from it? Bare-knuckled boxing in these days? Against someone everyone knew was good at moving around, even in a heavy armoured suit?

Wash didn't move when he'd gone still. "...You're old fashioned," he said. He hadn't let his shirt go, keeping his fingers tightened around the thin fabric.

"What?"

"You wanted to win the hard way. And you wanted the prize. You actually thought I was the prize- You could've just as easily fought someone easier than me to rank up. Top fifteen got the spots, not top ten. York's twelve and wicked terrible at CQC, his rank's all from skillsets and vehicles and marksmanship, you could've done him. You picked me. Deliberately."

"Gotta fight the best-"

"Texas," he hissed.

Washington smirked. "Alright, you caught me. You're better-looking, and I wanted to get my hands all over you."

He narrowed his eyes. "You're not entirely joking. I'm the prize."

"You're not. Talk like that, though, and I'm going to think-"

"I accepted it, didn't I?"

Wash laughed. "Might help if you get the urge out now that it's in your head."

He scoffed. "I'm hurting wicked bad here," he admitted. "But we're teaming up, number eight. I'm watching you close. You're not going to stay at eight for long. And I'm getting back to third."

"You think you're the only person I snuck up on,” Wash said. "I've beaten out a lot of people just to get that match with you."

"Rematch," he snarled again. "Once I'm well. And this time if you win you actually can fuck me."

"That confident, huh?" Wash nearly purred. Maine didn't know why that made him a little heated.

"I know better than to sneak in this time."

Wash chuckled. He leaned forward, smirking wider. "Then how about you give me incentive?" he said. He pressed in for a kiss, and Maine even let him sneak it for a second before bashing his own head forward.

The secondary blackout had been so worth it, even with the two teeth he'd needed to replace and the permanent slight off-set to his jawbone.

Wash was back again the next day.

Maine had definitely taken the consideration of what everything between them had meant then.

*

The funny thing about having a partner now was the move. Maine had even taken the high road and moved in Wash's room instead of forcing him to pack. They slept less than four feet apart.

Four feet. That's all it took.

Just out of reach and just close enough to barely have to close it.

A lot could happen within four feet, and both of them spent a lot of time glaring between it.

Of course, they spent a lot of time glaring directly into each other's eyes as they tried to ignore exactly why they were both furiously tugging on their own dicks and attempting to repress exactly who they were looking at and pretending the hand really belonged to.

The first night they did this, they both lay back panting but pretending the other wasn't. "Matthew," he said. “From York, Maine." For a moment, Maine winced- He'd lost. He'd lost he'd lost he'd-

“David, from Seattle. I definitely prefer Wash." Wash answered, barely a whisper- Had he been that soft? "First name that ever felt like my own identity. David just felt it was just my name. "

"My family called me Mattey," Maine replied. "And I actually like it. But you should stick to Maine. I couldn't handle if you said it, too."

"I've slept with seven guys, never anything serious, and one really failed attempt in Junior year with a girl," Wash continued, just to keep the conversation going. Maine didn't look away from the ceiling.

"Twelve girls. Never been slightly interested otherwise before."

"Agnostic," Wash supplied. "Severely."

"Catholic," he answered. "But mostly just on Christmas."

"Do we actually care about each other?" Wash asked.

"I might be in love with you," Maine admitted. "I don't know yet. I don't want to be. I don't know shit about you and I really don’t care to, either. But fuck if I'm not certain that I've got this wicked itch for you. And I'm never saying any of that again, even if it ends up being dead on."

"Yeah," Wash sighed, although Maine winced that it was out of relief. "That sounds right."

Maine sunk deeper into his mattress. "I won't let us happen."

"You shouldn't."

In a small way, it hurt that Wash agreed.

*

' _Watch out for that left, don't act first just react_ ,' Maine told himself. Usually he did exactly the opposite, but, Wash fought differently- He had different training.

Mainly, he decided on a completely new tactic all-together. Wash moved like a boxer until he grappled. That meant a lot of movement in his feet.

That meant that if he went low, expecting shuffles, he could knock him off-balance.

The sixth time he’d kicked Wash's feet out from under him on a landing after twisting or flipping or cartwheeling, Wash stopped moving his feet entirely. That meant that Maine was the only one moving fast, and that Wash had to turn. Every time Wash took his time, Maine had a well-placed hand or foot on the ready before he wasn’t there again. He wanted Wash's face to take some damage, after all, except he didn't want to bother using the floor to help with that.

He wanted that face fucked up.

He hated how often he thought about it even when he wasn't scowling at it and furiously pretending he wasn't- He wanted it different.

"Rank eight," he spat when Wash finally went down, standing over the struggling loser and rubbing the sides of his wrists from where he'd bent them to contort. He'd done too many breakdance moves too quickly, too many catches and bounces back up. He'd be nursing them for days- And that was worth it, if only because his wrists were too sore to twist them for the other activities Wash had been bringing on him.

He felt sick to his stomach when Wash looked up at him and smirked again. "Almost was higher," he said. "Almost let me win, didn't you?"

The only reason Wash'd been in a position to advance so quickly was Washington was one of the highest intelligence ratings in the group and the only one with an almost flawlessly photographic memory with a habit of picking up on details and rating them. He'd checked. He'd checked up on a lot of things about Wash- Easy to pretend it was just because they partnered. Even to himself.

*

Wash and Maine were always touching. Always.

If Wash was in the hallway passing Maine, he'd shove him into the wall. Maine'd respond by thrusting his foot into Wash's instep.

If Wash was sitting in the canteen, Maine'd throw aside his food and grab Wash's hand into a heated arm-wrestling match, smashing it down into the table hard enough to cause it to shake.

If Maine was in the showers, he'd feign he was slipping on the tiles when Wash lunged, and he had enough skill to slide past him and kick him into the next stall.

Maine always won. He made sure he always won.

If he lost, he'd give in to the way Wash smiled in that predatory, knowing way. He knew. Wash knew.

He wanted to lose.

But he wouldn't.

He couldn't.

There was no way he was going to give in to any fucking urges about the frickin' prick.

*

It was funny how, battling for his sanity and sexuality while despising everything about Washington, he sort of found him a friend. He'd learned about him somehow. Better than he knew a lot of people.

Their late night whispers definitely helped with that.

But he knew things. The same way he knew how come Wash hated holidays, he knew why he needed to be the best. The same way he knew his favourite food, he knew Wash's innermost secrets.

They'd whispered their fantasies about each other while acting on them alone in their own bunks. They'd whispered they loved each other hundreds of times and never even tried to look at each other when they did. He certainly didn't- And he knew Wash didn't, either.

It was so stupid. He knew Wash. He knew that Wash didn't care whether he lived or died, and almost seemed to find it funny that Maine never responded by just killing him.

He knew Wash wanted him to lose before he let himself die.

And Wash slept four feet from him.

Four feet.

He could reach over that four feet with a knife any time.

Hell, a bullet from his bedpost holster would be even easier. He kept it loaded.

But every time he reached for his gun or his knife, all he could think about was that it'd be just as easy to cross that four feet and just fuck him first.

Wash wanted him to lose before he let him kill him.

He wondered if Wash figured out that he hadn't for exactly the same reason.

*

Environmental conditions were one of Maine's weakspots, but snow training was easy enough. He'd been raised in snow. He could handle snow. It made him less mobile but he was strong enough to just give in and say fuck the mobility, he could grapple.

It was right in the middle of Wash's smirk-and-tackle that he remembered why he'd done the highly evasive tactics against him.

He'd forgotten that even though he had more mass, Wash was stronger than him.

He'd forgotten that Wash had grown up in an area just as cold, with a lot more precipitation.

He wasn't exactly sure what he was feeling as he realised that he'd lost.

*

Wash wasn't on top of him when he gave in. He'd wanted to be equals. He'd crawled in next to him, stripped them both down, and started to kiss over his jaw.

Wash really seemed to enjoy the part where he didn't quite match up evenly any more.

"Stop jerking around and get it over with," Maine snarled.

"Funny- You're the one jerking," Wash teased. Maine shifted his hand away in disgust, mostly at himself, but Wash took it and put it back. "It was nice to look down at," he mumbled as he drew Maine's leg over his thigh and started to slick him up.

"Frickin' gross," Maine growled as he grabbed Wash's neck and kissed him full-on instead of letting him keep drawing it out. The sex came almost seconds after that. He had enjoyed it a lot more than he'd expected. Enough that he went ahead and did it another three times that night.

Four feet away wasn't close enough after that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I mentioned I wrote this before the first RTX, right? That means before we learned that Wash actually wasn't so badass a Freelancer. Yeah. Sorry. And also that Carolina was the best, and that Tex joined in later, and about thirty other "This is definitely AU" points.

**Author's Note:**

> As a special sneak present for my beta I added one of her OC Freelancers in this chapter.
> 
> Although he seemed excited for it when I asked him, Matt Hullum did not, unfortunately, use a New England accent for Maine. But this is AU.


End file.
